


Pirouette

by scribeofmorpheus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballet, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bodyguard Romance, Bodyguard!AU, Clashing personalities, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Modern Setting, Other, Pining, Reader is a Ballerina, Reluctant Hearts, Sexual Tension, mature language, stark reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribeofmorpheus/pseuds/scribeofmorpheus
Summary: Tony Stark dotes on his beguiling and head-strong adoptive sister. But when a near-miss with lurking thugs in a dark alleyway leaves her a little jumpy, Tony decides to hire the charming, mysterious stranger that saved her life (on a more permanent basis than one-time unsung hero). The only problem? They can’t stand to be in the same room with each other.





	Pirouette

Abstraction. That is what drives the penultimate scene of your ballet production as a man in a devil costume sautés towards you in maladroit strokes.

Pointed toe facing forward, arms careened overhead in an arch, you wait patiently for your dance partner to hit his mark. Your breathing is soft and deep. A quiet, contemplative moment.

Then the music swells and the concerto grows darker, the tempo rises quicker and quicker in an ominous premonition.

The audience members hold their breath as this masquerading devil ensnares you within his callous touch. Under his epileptic caresses, you begin to move. Writhing and struggling as he chases after you once you break free.

Delicate steps meant to invoke the essence of innocence and fragility unfold in a sacred dance between two opposing forces. The dance escalates into a crusade between light and dark. Your movements are losing their delicateness, trading it in for a show of distress. His movements are a darker contrast to your own. Always a step behind. Always overshadowing your shadow. Morphing it into an inhuman silhouette.

Gasps leave agape mouths as a violin screams through the hot air in a flat note. Faint, beautiful melodies of a grand piano are drowned out by the cacophony of chaos –the distortion of the devil’s symphony.

Your skirmish grows more desperate, your movements becoming less fluid and more forceful. As the climax fast approaches, you feel your chest strain against your corset.

You swing your leg from front to back, tilting your upper body slightly backwards, opposite to the direction of your leg. The masked devil hovers over you, lips obstructed by hard, red plastic. With a chaste kiss, both your bodies tumble to the ground, folding into a death pose.

The music stops, the main stage lights turn on with a shuttering echo and suddenly, the whole theatre is stripped of its silence and replaced by thunderous applause.

Your dance partner rises from the ground and leans over to help you up. You bow and wave as rose petals shower at your feet. A blush sets on your face as your eyes begin to well up with pride.

This night, like every other night, was worth all the dislocated toes and worn-out shoes you’d suffered. Beyond a doubt.

* * *

Antoine, the director, saunters over, his flamboyant holographic coat shifting like plastic, “You two were spectacular out there!” He sends out blow kisses, a big elated grin on his middle-aged face.

“A true compliment to the genius behind our success,” your dance partner, Julian, replies.

On either side of you, the set crew walk past carrying several prop pieces to be returned to storage. Antoine is already focused on his phone when it beeps. “Oh, how enchanting! One of the columnists in the New Yorker just sent me a proof of his review.”

Julian arches a brow, hand peeling off his red mask completely, “Isn’t that against policy?”

Antione hushes him with a coy wink, “It’s only frowned upon when the reviews are less than stellar, and they aren’t! Now go and do… whatever it is young kids like yourselves do on a Friday night!”

You bite back a smile as you watch your director strut towards the set crew, barking orders in his pleasantly light tone.

“Hey, Y/N, you were great today,” Julian ruffles his jelled back hair, shooting you a dastardly smile. “Like always.”

You mimick his action and undo your bun, hair flowing downwards. The uncomfortable pull on your follicles subsiding. You take a breath before answering, “I’m only as good as my partner.”

He blushes, hands fidgeting as he walks with you towards your dressing room, “Listen, a few of us were planning on going out for drinks –to celebrate. We’d love to have the star of the show kick back a few shots with the rest of us.”

“I’d love to,” you place your hand on his shoulder, slightly annoyed at the fact you are going to have to cancel. Again.

Julian’s lips screw upwards, “I know that look, there’s a ‘_but’_ coming isn’t there.”

“But… my brother promised to take me out. He promised it would be a night to remember. One of his famous extravagant outings that starts with dinner and a bottle of overly expensive champagne, and ends with a drunk spur of the moment trip to Milan… again,” You giggle at the memory. “But have a few shots in my honour.”

Julian leans over and places a kiss on your cheek. Somehow it doesn’t feel nearly as chaste as the kiss from before. You clear your throat when his lips linger a little too long and he jumps back in a subtle and swift motion.

“See you during rehearsals then,” he stretches his arm muscles until they let out a satisfying pop as he makes his way to the adjoining dressing room.

Halfway through applying your mascara, your phone starts to vibrate against your propped up elbow causing you to gasp in freight and drag the wet, black brush across your one closed eyelid. You glance down at the screen trying to see who it is. The illuminated screen displays a blurry photo of Tony’s sleeping face partially covered by a green party hat with a fake twirly moustache scribbled on his upper lip in permanent ink. You beam a smile as your thumb taps on the screen, fond memories of his last New Year’s Eve party flashing by in a bright reel of happy laughs and multicoloured streamers.

“Hey, _Wonton_,” you call him by his nickname, bringing your phone to your ear. “You almost here or…?”

“_Prima_! Hey, sorry to do this to you again, but…”

A sigh fills the room. You know what’s coming. It’s par for the course with him lately. “Something’s come up, hasn’t it?”

“Impromptu meeting with the board, they’re still a little wary about the clean energy deal, you know how these suits can get.” He gives a speedy reply.

You slump back into your chair, your hand already armed with a face wipe, dragging the wet material across your downcast face. A smudge of black smears down the corner of your eye. You draw out the silence so he knows how unhappy you are with this sudden change of plans. A tactic you’d perfected since childhood.

After a beat, you answer him, “I can’t say I wasn’t looking forward to our dinner, but we all have jobs to do and Stark Industries pays the bills.”

Tony exhales and you can practically envision him pinching the bridge of his nose, “Look, I could ask Pep to go with you. I still have the reservation and she’s almost wrapped up here.”

“No, that’s alright. Talk to you later Wonton.”

“Later and congratulations, I hear your closing night was a big success. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person.”

You stare into the mirror, glaring at the forced smile that you have on show for no one but yourself. You’re trying to make yourself feel better, but it isn’ working. “I’m a big girl, I can stomach a little disappointment. Now go save the world.”

You chuck your phone onto the dresser and finish wiping off the evidence that you had spent a good fifteen minutes doing your make-up. A yawn slipping between pressed lips as you grab your coat and bag off the rack.

_Maybe Julian and the others haven’t left yet._

The sound of your heels clomping down on the polished floor is very pronounced in the dimly lit studio. A shiver runs up your spine when you realise how hauntingly empty the building is. You don’t like being the last one to leave. This place always carries an eerieness to it.

You knock on Julian’s door, hoping he and the others are still around, but the silence persists. With another sigh, you decide to give up on the prospects of doing anything fun besides soaking your raw muscles in an Epsom salt bath for the rest of the night.

* * *

Yellow ochre is the shade of colour that streams off the alleyway street lamps behind the theatre. Empty food cartons and discarded newspapers tumble in the cold breeze. The faint stench of booze and urine and cigarettes staining the walls.

An unsettling sensation sinks to the bottom of your stomach, and seeing as how you already ate earlier, it isn’t hunger gnawing at your digestive muscle. Clouds of mist form when your warm breath meets the chilling air, the hairs on the nape of your neck stand erect –prickling with static and something else. You brace your arms around your waist, tucking your chin under the cover of your upturned coat’s collar. It feels like something is watching you in the obscurity of dark corners.

Like second nature, your pace quickens, heels echoing even louder in the cold night air. To your utter despair, just when you are about to turn the bend -into the safety of light- rough hands yank at the straps of your bag, pulling you back into the darkness.

Your body hits the ground, hard. Skin grazed apart leaving a raw ache on your knees and now twisted ankle. Your head is cracked open when it slams against the sharp edge of a dumpster. A stream of blood courses down from your brow, covering one eye in warm, red liquid. You let out a yelp, pain going unnoticed as your fight or flight instincts kick in.

In the midst of your scurry, you hear, but don’t see, a person shout in a gravelly voice, “Gimmie your purse and your jewellery, now!”

You reach into your coat for your phone, but your shaky fingers are unable to get a good grip and regrettably, your phone lands screen-side down onto the ground. A cracking noise letting you know the screen has shattered and so has all hope of calling for help. The pounding in your brain gets stronger the more panicked you become.

The imposing presence hovers closer, a sickly energy surrounding his large frame. What is happening now is a more savage re-enactment of your ballet, only this time you are not the one in control. You cannot foresee the turning of events before they transpire because you haven’t rehearsed this particular dance with the devil.

Your stomach tangles into itself, bile and acid burning at your throat as you try to scream. All senses are rendered inert from the loss of blood. Your body convulses from fear as that shadowy figure staggers closer –his movements are crude, hindered by inebriated muscles.

Using what last few senses you have left, you brace your head and recline in a foetal position –waiting for the worst of it to pass while you cower under the flimsy protection of shivering arms. Then you hear a struggle. Faint echoes of a grunt born from pain and surprise. Profanity being bellowed out of a clenching jaw, and not too soon after, you hear a heavy thud. The kind that reminds you of bones hitting into metal. It’s quiet now, except for the rattle of rolling trash cans.

“Are you alright?” a strong, concerned voice asks. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

You peek through the cover of your arms catching sight of an ocean trapped within a set of sad eyes, a gentle hand stretching out towards you.

“Who…” the world spins faster on its axis, taking you along for the ride. Mouth turning dry and raspy, you try your words one more time. “Who are you?”

“Bucky,” the stranger says as his arms pull you onto his lap, half his face illuminated by the cold artificial blue of his cell phone. He plucks the hairs sticking to your bloody face away as he dials 911. “My name’s Bucky.”

Then everything goes black.


End file.
